A bird without wings

By viktoriya on July 27, 2010

The wing­less bird
is often at my win­dow
it squirms at plum­met
of the rain or blindly blinks at moon
it does not chirp and ask me no per­mis­sion
to peck on win­dow of my room at mid­night or at noon

It has no shadow and its feathers’re miss­ing
the gloss of dew and star­dust of the night
It turns to Raven –when I read it lis­tens
it turns to glit­tered quill in moon­light when I write

But inter­minably it comes when day’s in blos­som
it’s miss­ing wings are piti­ful regret
Pre­sid­ing over Salvador’s ”supreme ambi­tion”
it squints at books I start to write but soon forget…

”Intel­li­gence with­out ambi­tion is a bird with­out wings”
Sal­vador Dali

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You said you can’t forget

By viktoriya on July 27, 2010


I said:

Leave the past to its shad­ows
Death claims life but not love
Often dust of burnt mead­ows
Paired with rain from above
Bears the fruits and the flow­ers
New Eden for lost lovers.….….

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Oh, Masters of the written word!

By viktoriya on June 10, 2010


who claim poor Yorick being for­got­ten
and dusted verse of dead Shake­speare!
The rusted sword that cuts your tongue!
The dirt of blab­ber fill­ing shal­low
The depth of your pro­found thought!

You scream I am Witch of dark­ened ages!
And make the fire with the pages
That praises me! You bare sages!
Me! Who drank old gin with drunken Poe?
Who filled the skull with blood of wine
for Byron play­ing in his cas­tle?
Invited to soirees and rested on clover
Bed with Steven­son observ­ing ‘’… child, far, far away,
And in another gar­den, play…’’ ?

I am con­demned to burn in flames
Sus­tained by you with flap­ping pages
of poems read as short­ened prose!
The mas­ter­pieces of new ages
Stored in the dusted schools of yours!
The instru­ments of inqui­si­tion to kill me more~!

I am The Rhyme!
I will sur­vive the burn­ing blaze
Of foolest pages yet reced­ing!
The light of old will lit they way
To newest king­dom
Of my reign!
And not sus­tained thy flames will wane!

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Paramours

By viktoriya on June 10, 2010


Book is open, eyes closed
Orange clouds call thun­der
Salty breeze flap­ping pages
under peach tinted dust,

Dark­ened dunes lonely cas­tles
cast­ing saf­fron on coast­line
Ocean–amber indigo
melt­ing last golden rays…

Draped in the Suede of first shad­ows
Night pulls black sleeve of cloak,
Weaved in dia­monds and rubies
lace of mask over face

cast­ing moon shot reflec­tion
in the glis­ten­ing mir­ror…..
Split in half glassy king­dom
War on top –peace beneath

play­ing won­drous drama
Splashed in blue sward of light­ning
Thun­der cracks abyss open
strik­ing torches of gold

rolling waves ever mighty
Mephistophilus plays Wag­ner
sweep­ing moon with the star­dust
wind is wail­ing above
Brig­an­tine har­bored under.…

Rags of red silky dresses
Drapes of sails flaw­ing down
Play is over, seats empty
actors fired. Alas!

Salvador’s melt­ing watches
Kings of noon­tide are bro­ken
Mast—lit stage holds unspo­ken
Final, short epi­logue
of what once was a drama….
Sleep­less nights twined in passion!

Para­mours’ time­less play­wright
Moon– is hid­ing in shad­ows
Prima donna lays pas­tel
Wreath of lilies –white tears

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The Door

By viktoriya on May 12, 2010

I dreamed of nar­row streets of Rome with sun­light brushed against the open windows

I dreamed of iron door– its carv­ing weave of han­dle too hot on fin­gers– opened into cool­ing
shad­ows of the courtyard

I dreamed of foun­tain that shed its scar­let paint, strik­ing the strings of icicles—the fever­ish sparks against my flush­ing skin, turn golden streaks that melt and slither under décol­leté of tawny silk

I dreamed you tore that silk away– the orange flames against your bare feet burn­ing the angels perched on flow­ers of the tiles’ marble…

I dreamed you twined with shad­ows and left your light within the class­rooms of your wis­dom and dusted libraries and,
blaze with me, at holy city of the sin, that used to burn to ashes its daz­zling bells up in its lofty cobalt dome—the end­less sky of ancient Rome..

2010.

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Demon

By viktoriya on June 19, 2009

BrokenGlass2

The shat­tered mir­ror on the floor
The moon­light bro­ken into pieces
Reflect­ing thou­sands of nights
That make my soul so rem­i­nis­cent
Of dark­est grief for fallen light
I used to seek with desperation

I looked for day but found night
Filled with the fear and frustration

And night by night I could not sleep
My angel left me in the dark­ness
Of nar­row room of grimmest thoughts
The cry­ing thoughts that were my masters

Then He would come
On win­dowsill his strange pro­file of palest
Pal­let of cold­est blue, trans­par­ent yel­low
Lit up by moon…his eyes would fer­ret
His dirty cup…
my soul would scorch
In flames of thy red hell­ish power
To fail my will…

I could not think.…
He handed venom ..I would drink.

Ded­i­cated to Edgar Allan Poe

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Moment

By viktoriya on May 15, 2009


I thought I would write a novel
I thought I would sing a song
I wanted to cap­ture a moment
and give it a life that is long
Or may be make it immor­tal
encrust it with tal­ent of pen
And give it Rach­mani­noff ”forte”…
and ”piano” of ten­der Chopen*.…

*Chopin( the music of rhymes. East­ern Euro­peans pro­nounce Chopen )

.

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This Time

By viktoriya on March 23, 2009

DMTradeBeadsRed
Your words —as sil­ver Knives

They always cut with­out res­ur­rec­tion
The ten­der golden String that laces our Souls
With pre­cious beads of days and nights
and price­less moments of Affection

And every time you slash that strand
I look for tiny beads to fix it
and with each time I find them less..

I take what’s left and try to mix it
With empty looks, and closed doors
With lonely nights, and last­ing griev­ing
For some­thing that belonged to us

The Spring of our trea­sured feelings…

This time, I may add sparkling tears
And mix them with the droplets scat­tered on the ground
But seems this time the strand will not be fixed
The tiny clasp of purest gold– was lost… and never found.…

…

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Silence

By admin on August 19, 2008

Viktoriya

I think of Silence as Hope
to hear har­mony of life
I want to break the tick­ing Clock
That cuts its span as sharpest knife

I need Seren­ity as Friend
To visit place where lights are off
I feel that Still­ness what was meant
The firmest speech was meant as soft
as Whis­per of the  falling snow
or Sigh of Wind, and Time as slow
And dis­tant as a Waltz of Past.…
I need it now. I need it fast.

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Solitude

By viktoriya on August 19, 2008


Oh, closer to the Absolute,
In out­lines of moun­tains indigo sky is slowly melt­ing into
Shad­ows,
Lean­ing away from set­ting sun and over­cast­ing darken mead­ows,
The End and ulti­mate Begin­ning, the Sham­bala of Soul
Where Yin and Yang cre­ate a ver­i­ta­ble Mean­ing…..
Enchanted Mecca of the Moon, tran­quil­ity rein­car­na­tion,
where stars engrav­ing con­stel­la­tions
Cre­ate a crys­tal clear path for tired soul to find its rest..
There lived a Solitude…for years
She hid in creeks and slept in Shad­ows
With word­less stars on silent nights
With clover bed at moon­lit mead­ows
Alone…for many years..alone
Sur­rounded by peace­ful Bliss
No one to love…No one to miss…

…

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